


The Nature of the Job

by TelepathJeneral



Series: SigMoira Historical AU [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-01-21 00:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: The period is industrial era Ireland, with a younger Doctor de Kuiper seeking his way in the world. But the life of a country doctor is not as fantastic as he'd been led to believe.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper
Series: SigMoira Historical AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583788
Comments: 28
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

The hills were rolling, smooth and lush. Sheep grazed across their wide expanse, while smoke curled from the cottages and houses dotting the landscape. A light cloudy haze, not heavy enough to be fog, softened the edges of a heather-gray sky, and the air was lightly scented with earthy tones which lifted the spirits and heightened the imagination. The Emerald Isle: a place of magic and of dreams.

This, at least, was what Siebren had expected. This was what had been promised. What he found instead was an island drenched by rain and hail, the train carrying him battered by the skies as it wobbled across the land. Looking at Ireland on a map, the prospect seemed outlandish: the place was so small! It wasn’t like Russia, or the Scottish highlands, or the Americas. Ireland was  _ accessible _ , and cozy. Comfortable. But despite all his predictions, Doctor Siebren de Kuiper found himself huddling with his trunks beneath the station awning, trying desperately to read the signs and make sense of the gibberish he heard around him.  _ Ireland _ . Of all places.

His references at the college hadn’t prepared him for this. They’d waxed poetic about the appeal of their native land, of the cultured discussions and fascinating individuals he might encounter. And he’d believed them. Fool that he was, he’d believed them. He’d taken this job in a tiny, nameless village, abandoning the Continent altogether, relying on his knowledge of English and human anatomy to carry him through. But these people didn’t speak English. They spoke  _ Gaelic _ , even down to the children, a language entirely unmoored from Continental references. 

And it was cold. Ireland was meant to be temperate, warmed by the current. He hadn’t expected the  _ cold _ .

When someone approached, he did not immediately acknowledge them, accustomed to the press of bodies in the train carriage and the jostling of other passengers. However, when the muddy boots did not move from their position, and the sound of rain on an umbrella finally filtered through his consciousness, Siebren looked up sharply, eyebrows furrowing as he found a tall, slim figure watching him cooly.

“Yes?”

“You’re the doctor.” The voice that emerged was odd, smooth, and it took Siebren a moment to realize that his companion was  _ female _ . Her coat fell nearly to her ankles, disguising her skirt, and her layers of clothing hid any sign of feminine curvature. And yet it was there, in the angling of her chin and the prominence of her cheekbones, a delicate femininity that had been honed like a knife. 

“Doctor de Kuiper. Yes.” It still took effort to smooth out the accent from his voice, to avoid the broadened vowels and natural melody of his native tongue, but he managed it. For all the good it would do him. “I am meant to meet an alderman, I believe, one of the town council--”

“We don’t much have a council.” The woman interrupted, her eyes roaming over the emptiness of the tracks before them. “There’s not that much to do, frankly.”

“With all due respect, madam, I am establishing a practice. I do need to ensure the proper procedure is followed.”

“You’re here to heal the sick.” Her bright blue eyes returned to him, icy cold in their evaluation. “The sooner you get to that, the better.”

Siebren blinked, shocked by her directness, and found himself further shocked by her movement away from him. She turned to go, marching back into the rain, and he scrambled to lift his trunk as he realized she was leading him into the town. Just like that: without preamble or explanation. Just a snide comment about getting to work, and he was dropped like a hot potato, hm? 

Siebren did not like to think of himself as an angry or irritable man, but the travelling had made him snappish. The rain continued to pelt him, even as he tried to wedge beneath the woman’s umbrella, and her pace was demanding. His trunk was continually slipping out of his hands. And his hostess hadn’t even introduced herself.

Siebren was not looking forward to spending the next few years of his life in this pathetic,  _ rainy _ hamlet.

++

As a man of science, Siebren had eschewed any belief in formal religion years ago. His gods were those of weights and balances, of observable phenomena and written discourse. However, his arrival to the village had prompted several exclamations from his own lips to some unknown, unseen deity, regarding but not limited to:

  1. The inclusion of that _woman_ (O’Deorain, she was called) in his physician’s office.
  2. The reliance of these people on their local priest.
  3. The utter lack of basic medical supplies provided in the existing medical facilities.
  4. The line that had appeared, unbidden, at his office door the day after his arrival.
  5. The multiple farmers who had asked if he might ‘take a peek’ at their dog, their horse, or their _sheep._

There really were an  _ ungodly _ amount of sheep.

The need was obvious enough. O’Deorain mentioned off-handedly, as she was rummaging through his trunks, that the last trained doctor had left town three years prior, leaving the citizens to fend for themselves as midwives and nurses. Overwhelmed and exhausted, Siebren had tried to process his most important duties in the few hours he had to recover, but he lacked the resilience to refuse the first dire cases that appeared on his doorstep. The first days turned into weeks, his clothes lying untouched in his trunks and his books wrinkling in the humidity, and it was a terrifying moment when, in the middle of the day, Siebren felt himself  _ falling  _ suddenly into a desperate, bottomless abyss.

With a start, Siebren jerked awake, lifting his head from the ramshackle desk that had been provided to him in the physician’s office.

“Not a lovely dream, then.” O’Deorain was still there, rearranging a row of bottles for the fiftieth time. She had a tendency to do that: to reassemble or rearrange, especially as he was trying to find the words to kick her out. Even now, she didn’t look at him as she spoke, and yet there was only the two of them in the room. He had to assume she meant to speak to him.

“I was not dreaming.”

“No, no, of course not.” She lifted her hand to another bottle, wrinkling her nose at the faded label. “There’s no shame in dreaming.”

“I was not asleep.”

“You weren’t?” She lifted one thin eyebrow, gracing him with a momentary glance from those ice-cold eyes. “Are you sleeping well?”

Siebren blinked, discomfited by the question. “I have no choice, do I?”

“The human body is capable of many surprising things. More often than not, it does the opposite of what we need from it.”

“I rest. That is all.”

O’Deorain set down her bottles, hesitating a moment before she turned to him. Siebren sat up as she faced him, surprised--she rarely bothered to face him fully. He found himself more often treated as a secondary concern, in her eyes. “We have ways, Doctor Kuiper, of assisting a reluctant body.”

Siebren blinked several times, finally glancing at the bottles. “Under no circumstances would I turn to  _ morphine _ for simple insomnia. I am appalled, O’Deorain--”

“You may call me Moira.” She interjected smoothly, sliding the bottles back. “And you may find this noble resistance crumbling after a few more weeks of this pace.”

“Was this the reception the council had in mind? Drive out the outsider through sheer exhaustion and stubbornness?” Siebren scowled, hunched over his desk. “I would  _ not _ turn to morphine. The medical supplies here are already limited, there would be no need to deplete them further.”

“There’s less formal methods. Ethanol, for example.”

“I prefer wine.” Siebren jumped in surprise, shocked by the turn of conversation--and by O’Deorain’s--Moira’s--references.  _ Ethanol? _ “Not that it is any concern of yours--”

“I have to say, it’s somewhat impressive.” Moira nodded, shifting on her stool. “We didn’t know what to expect from a Dutchie. Too many bad memories of businessmen, I think. But you haven’t snapped at a patient, yet.”

“I came here to help people.” Siebren slumped onto his desk, too tired to deal with the twisting conversational paths. “Most of them are too simple to remember their medication, much less follow my instructions, but that is not their  _ fault _ .”

“You’re also being paid.” Moira pointed out. “No thanks to your own efforts.”

“I have not often dealt with the details of payment.”

“Which means I am tasked with the duty of collection. Once a week, trekking out to the farthest stretches, badgering housewives for pennies. The lights have to stay on somehow.”

Siebren looked up in surprise, brow furrowed with confusion. “You do the collections?”

“The cashbox does not magically get filled by fairies, Doctor Kuiper. We Irishmen are a stingy lot by nature, and the thought of payment going to a foreigner...it rankles with many.”

“So you do the collections.”

“It’s not any easier just because it’s me!” For the first time, Moira’s voice held some intensity of emotion, and Siebren watched as her face displayed the offense and irritation he’d privately felt for so long. “Half of them still call me ‘girlie’.”

“You are a girl.” He pointed out, shrinking before the intensity of her renewed glare. “You are!”

“And amn’t likely to forget, what with everyone mentioning it half the day!” Biting her tongue, Moira sat back, returning to her procedural reorganization of the shelves. “Doing twice the work for half the pay and trapped in a skirt for all it.”

“You get paid?” Siebren was nearly tempted to duck beneath his desk, smacked by his own stupidity as Moira resumed her glare.

“Of course I get paid! You think I enjoy sitting here watching you sleep?”

“I thought--” Siebren shoved his chair away from the desk, tensed with irritation. “You didn’t  _ say _ anything!”

“Someone needed to hold your hand as you got ‘settled’! And you not speaking the tongue, you need a translator.”

“I didn’t--” Siebren bared his teeth, trying to make sense of this new information. “Why you?”

“I’m the only one who knows what this all means.” Moira gestured at the room around them, glass bottles clinking as she placed them back on the shelves. “We had to make do, between doctors.”

Slowly, with the fatigue addling his brain, Siebren made a vital connection. “You had to do all of it? Before I came?”

Moira did not respond immediately, now somehow chastened by the question. “I did what I could.”

“But you’re not--”

“No. I’m not a doctor.” A deep bitterness resounded in her tone, and Siebren felt a chill run through him at the thought. “But there isn’t much you can’t learn of practical medicine here. Births. Deaths. Amputations. It all happens.”

Amputations. Siebren was reminded uncomfortably of the morphine, and the relative lack thereof. The amputations he’d attended had been grisly things, and that had been in the facilities of the Netherlands--what was it like out here?

“I.” He tried to begin, his tongue stymied by his confusion and uncertainty. Why was she telling him this? Was there a point?

Or was she simply saying it to have it said and over with? To avoid further questions?

“I. I have my books.” He started, feeling the heat of her withering glare.

“For all the good they’ve done you.”

“No! No, no, I mean--” He stared at the window, taking a deep breath. “You should read them. I can help translate, if they’re not in English. It would be more helpful if you knew those things. I mean--no, you know them already, you simply don’t know that you know them. No! No, no, that is, you  _ know _ this, but you...you have--”

“You really do need more sleep.” A smile crept over Moira’s expression, and she stood to make her way to the desk before nodding once. “I’ll manage, Doctor Kuiper.”

“De Kuiper.” He corrected, edging away from where she stood beside the desk. “Doctor de Kuiper.”

“Oh.” Her smile faded, replaced by faint confusion. “It matters?”

“It’s my  _ name _ .” He insisted, shocked by her lack of concern. 

“Very well. Doctor de Kuiper.” Moira nodded once, turning back to return to her own side of the room. “And...please do not be angry with the people here. They are trying their best.”

Siebren nodded in response, resting his head against his desk once more. “As are you, Moira O’Deorain. As are you.”

Without the interruption of another patient, Siebren felt himself slipping back to sleep, but not before he spied a wide, genuine grin returning to Moira’s features. 

It really did make her look quite fascinating, in the right light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter, simpler.

Moira’s prediction had been partially right: the pace of demand did not let up, and Siebren had no head for the financial figures that filled the books and ledgers in the front of the office. He had conveniently ignored the necessity of payment for several years, and now the details of his practice eluded him. Moira collected money, tidied the office, purchased his groceries, and basically kept his practice running--and he had no idea how it was accomplished. His quarters had been provided to him in a tiny, three room affair above the first floor of his office rooms, and the proximity to the train station meant that it was easy to pick up any deliveries he ordered. Still, the changes and the need in the community gave him little time to rest, and he often ended up stealing those brief minutes of rest between visits to sleep while Moira ignored him. 

At first, the patients had come to him, walking to his door with pneumonia, TB, scrofula, influenza--the full roster of ‘bad but not terrible’. It took him a few weeks to get into the habit of going out to someone’s home instead, attending to a bedridden grandfather or uncle while they protested or, in some cases, continued to sleep. His legs and feet ached. His shoes were utterly ruined. And Moira continued to either ignore him or, at best, offer that enigmatic smile. Devilish woman.

The winter months had not relented, and the humidity made the chill of the mornings more intense and terrifying than he’d previously experienced. Outside his doors, carts and donkeys trundled past with disappointing frequency, and though he had expected a chance to enjoy the outdoors, he had spent his time entirely indoors, avoiding his patients when he wasn’t attending to their ills. However, this avoidance could only last so long, as he found to his dismay when a large, bearded man shoved his way into the office with the rain accompanying him.

“Doc! We need a doctor!”

Startled out of his reverie, Siebren nearly fell out of his chair, but Moira was moving more quickly to take the bundle from the man’s arms. Behind them, a crowd of people stood around the office door, crowding forward to try and see inside the office. Siebren blustered forward, following Moira’s lead to study the bundle now folded in her arms, and he tensed to see the body of a young girl, pale and oddly twisted.

“Blood.” He said bluntly, shaking himself into action before pointing to the operating room. “You  _ fools _ , you moved her when she was bleeding? Moira, get her to the--”

“There was a cart, in the mud, and we didn’t know where she--”

“You shouldn’t have moved her!” Siebren placed a hand on the man’s chest to shove him back into the rain outside, ignoring the complaints and protests from the crowd outside. With a few long strides, Siebren had joined Moira in the operating theater, resisting the urge to curse as he finally acknowledged the blood soaking the girl’s coat and skirts.

“She’s not moving.” Moira adjusted her, pressing hard against the dampest section of clothing. “No punctures, if she was struck—”

“Could be bone.” Sibren shed his coat to join Moira’s work, peeling back the layers of fabric. “She’s in shock, if it happened quickly enough. Why did they move her?”

“They didn’t know better.”

“ _ Verdorie _ . They never do.” Siebren bared his teeth, finally uncovering the girl’s bare skin to stare at the bruising visible, along with— “As I said. Bone. Straighten the leg and brace yourself.”

“Doctor de Kuiper—”

“Brace!” Siebren was strong enough to do the work, truly, but the  _ sound _ was still enough to make his stomach clench. He couldn’t risk working on the girl’s leg if her bone had dislocated, and if she was still unconscious, there was no better time. Gritting his teeth, Siebren pushed, feeling the tiny body beneath him twist as he forced the bone into place. As he glanced back, he noted Moira’s pallor, but felt a twinge of admiration at her resolution. Even the blood could not subdue her. With a nod, she met his eyes, waiting for the next instruction, and he braced himself anew for the next step. 

“Don’t move your hands. We have much to do, yet.”

++

The girl hadn’t woken up the whole time, and Siebren was hard pressed to do the math in his head. He couldn’t determine how much blood she’d lost, but they’d gotten it to stop. That pale, small body lay bundled in new sheets, her chest rising and falling ever so slightly, and Siebren sat and stared. The theater would need to be cleaned, with bleach and hot water and God knows what else, and there would be people who needed more explanations. How could he let her out of here, if she’d have to go back home? Back in a cart, over the hills and rocks again, dragged into a freezing hovel?

No, no, he was being unkind.

And yet these were the people who’d nearly had her bleed to death in the street.

Despite the grime and gore on his hands, Siebren ran his hands into his hair, sinking forward to rest against his knees. Disease was bad enough. But accidents, the sheer fantastic chance, and the shock of something strong enough to tear through skin and bone—

She was just so small. Tiny. It was always children, wasn’t it.

“They don’t have that in the books.” Moira stood by the door, wiping her hands on a rag. The color had returned to her cheeks, and she’d even cleaned herself thoroughly enough to seem normal. Siebren eyed her between the bars of his fingers, slumping back in his chair.

“The family. Verdo—The family’s back, aren’t they, they want to see—”

“I locked the door.” Moira nodded curtly, tossing the rag into a bucket. “That was her father, you know, who brought her in. I doubt you made a friend.” 

And that, knowing that he’d failed even the basics of hospitality, alienating the people he’d come to help, made it seem as if the entire building was collapsing in around him. With a deep breath, Siebren tried to move and found himself simply slumping forward again, lurching between one extreme and the other. He could smell the blood under his fingernails, in his very nostrils. He was a damn fool.

Suddenly, a sound--a sensation interrupted him. Pressure was applied to the center of his back, right along the vertebrae, and Siebren shuddered. 

“You did a good thing, Doctor de Kuiper.”

“I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten about this.”

“You knew what you were doing, though. You did it.”

“They’re so  _ small _ .” He tried to breathe, gripping his hair in frustration. “You never have--you don’t...you don’t  _ practice _ on children. I could have broken her other leg.”

“But you didn’t.” Moira pressed her hand along his shoulders, leaning her weight into him. “You set the leg and stopped the bleeding and she’s  _ alive _ .”

“She’s going to go home and reopen the stitches and no one’s going to bring her back to have them taken out or fixed—”

“But you  _ did it _ .” Moira insisted, pulling on Siebren’s collar to lift him up from the chair. He followed slowly, finally recognizing her effort. “You need a bath.”

“Moira—”

“No. I will deal with the family. And I assure you that she  _ will  _ be back here for whatever you think is necessary.”

Siebren paused, studying Moira more carefully as he tried to think. “You’d do that.”

“I have to.” 

Siebren knew that Moira was not a woman of many words. He had never tried to press her before, never asked another question or followed up, but her insistence somehow surprised him. He nodded slowly, turning away to find the staircase up to his rooms and begin the laborious process of cleaning himself.

Perhaps things would look better later.


	3. Chapter 3

The other thing he didn’t understand about these people was... _ anything _ . Yes, they were farmers. And most farmers were basic people, living uncomplicated lives. The women gossiped and the men drank and, truly, Siebren understood the appeal of it all. He didn’t quite know these people and yet they’d tell him about Sinead’s latest purchases and Finn’s new donkey. It was oddly comforting, at times. He knew he was recognizable of his own accord, also: he was tall, taller than the women and most of the men, which made some of them uncomfortable. And he was different, so very visibly different, which made him interesting and strange and new. It was nice, for a time, to be a novelty. The frantic rush of accidents and illnesses and pregnant mothers began to subside into a more comfortable rhythm, and Siebren found himself appreciating the vagaries of the weather. The rain wasn’t so bad, in the end. Spring was approaching, and soon. 

Despite his growing ease, Moira O’Deorain did not seem to change. Her attitude was still harsh and stoic, more often than not, and her demeanor with patients was downright icy at times. The few moments of warmth he’d glimpsed were rare aberrations, and it confused Siebren to think about them too often. She was still a mystery to him, and he couldn’t tell whether or not he preferred it that way.

The sun was occasionally visible, if only through patches of lighter clouds, and Siebren began to find a measure of joy in his house calls. They were not ‘hovels’, not truly, merely homes filled to bursting with people and life. They were not  _ so  _ bad. He simply happened to see most people on terrible, awful days. Some of the older ones recognized it, thanking him or apologizing to him, but he brushed off their gifts and goodies. A free meal was never ignored, certainly, and a pair of mittens was useful enough. But sometimes the farmers would get to talking about harvests and yields and Siebren had to make a hasty exit. If you let them start talking about their crops, they were likely to never stop. 

Even with such positive attention, it was odd to have random visitors at the clinic, and Siebren tensed when a young, blonde woman slipped through the door of the front entry and approached the rear of the office space, smiling widely as she nodded to him.

“Doctor? You’re the…”

“Yes. I’m the doctor.” Siebren tensed, unsure of the reason for her approach. People did not just  _ appear _ in his office. Especially young, healthy people.

“We--well, my family, but me too--We wanted to invite you to a ceilidh!”

“A. A cayle-dee.” Siebren blinked in confusion, backing away slightly.

“No, a ceilidh!” Her smile was so... _ bright. _ “I’m Eireann--Fiona’s sister. We thought, after everything…”

Siebren’s brow furrowed, and he tried to make the connection between the names. So many names, and they all sounded the same! He tried to smile convincingly. “Ah. Right.”

“The McCarthys.” Moira’s voice surprised him, and Siebren felt trapped between the bright sunshiny smile of ‘Eireann’ and the new frigidity of Moira behind him. “You remember, Siebren. The little girl, in the street.”

“Oh. Oh! Oh, yes, and you are. You are a sister.” Siebren nodded slowly, perplexed by the turn of conversation. “Your father was very...insistent about treatment.”

“Yes, well, Papa can be a bit frustrating at times.” Eireann shrugged easily, moving back. “But what with the wedding coming up, and the ceilidh around the corner, we thought you should come!”

“Ah, and that would be—”

“It’s a party.” Moira moved past Siebren, continuing to her familiar shelves of tonics. “Dancing, drinking, food. The usual.”

“You don’t have to be sour about it, O’Deorain.” Eireann pouted, folding her arms. “You  _ are _ invited, after all.”

“Isn’t there a wedding?” Siebren shook his head. “What is—”

“The wedding won’t be until June, but we have to have the ceilidh before we get to planting, and that way we can have a hog and everything!” Eireann’s grin returned, her energy renewed. “Listen, you  _ must _ come, everyone’s expecting it. It will be  _ terrific _ .”

Siebren tried to think. This was not how…’parties’ were offered in the past. How was he to know where to go? What should he wear? What would he do? “I--I don’t know—”

“Papa can drive you to the hall, if you need. But--truly. As a thanks, for what you did for Fiona. And everything you do, you deserve some…” Eireann trailed off, unsure of how to continue. “We just. Wanted to invite you.”

“Well, I will consider it, certainly.”

“He’s going.” Moira cut in bluntly, studying another label. Both Eireann and Siebren stared at her, confused by the interruption. “What? You’re the doctor, Siebren. People will expect you there.”

“But I don’t—”

“Tell your father that I’ll make him go. He doesn’t understand what it means, yet.” Moira waved a hand in the air, somehow appearing to shoo Eireann away. “I promise you, Eireann. Doctor de Kuiper will be there.”

Unsure and uncertain, Eireann nodded slowly, backing away again to finally escape from the clinic door. With an odd tension now released, Siebren turned back to his back rooms, rubbing at his forearms. “Moira. What was that?”

“It’s as I told you: a party. We care a lot about our parties. You really can’t avoid going.”

“No, that--you’ve never called me ‘Siebren’.”

Moira hesitated, eyes fixing on a point somewhere on the wall. “It’s your name.”

“Yes. But you’ve never called me it.”

“Well.” Was she... _ uncomfortable? _ Siebren was tempted to be pleased. “It’s only fair, with you calling me ‘Moira’.”

“You don’t think it undermines my professional decorum?”

“You have little enough as it is.”

“Moira—”

“You actually attended to the sheep, Siebren. You  _ attended _ . To the  _ sheep _ .”

“It was a broken leg, easily set—”

“ _ Siebren _ .”

“Doctor de Kuiper.”

“You’re going  _ native _ .”

“And you want me to go to a caylde.”

“ _ Ceilidh. _ ” Moira insisted, setting aside her tonics.

“I am merely trying to understand, Moira. You never explain.”

“You never ask!” A bottle clinked as she pushed it aside, and Siebren moved forward in irritation. 

“When, exactly, do I have time to ask? You disappear as soon as official hours are over, hiding God knows where so you don’t have to deal with me.”

“It’s not about  _ dealing _ with you.” Moira replied tersely, turning to back away from Siebren. “You just don’t  _ understand _ .”

“I have worked, and studied, for my entire professional life, simply to come here and—”

“And earn the total respect of your community, get invited to ceilidhs, and ignore the minor details like ‘payment’ and ‘medication.” Moira shook her head in disgust, her arms folded. “You’d be dead in the water without me here.”

“I’m not—” Siebren hesitated, shrinking back. “I need you here. I never said otherwise.”

Moira shook her head, escaping the confines of her storage space to simultaneously escape the conversation. “You need to recognize that you’re important, now. You can’t ignore invitations like this.”

“I wasn’t planning on ignoring it. Truly. I just. I just don’t understand.”

“Then apply that book-learning and find out.” Moira snapped, disappearing again into the back room of the offices. Siebren frowned, slumping against the shelves next to him, and tried to determine what to do. He had never been good with reading emotions. Never good at the details of this work. Never good with  _ women _ . And now…

Well, now he was on his way to a ‘ceilidh’.

+++

It was exactly as he’d been promised: food, drink, and dancing. Somehow, for a ceilidh, they’d managed to pack the entire village into a single building, keeping enough space for a dance floor in the center. Though Siebren was hardly one for the dances, the food was satisfying enough, and it was fascinating to simply... _ watch _ . To see these people at a celebration was a new kind of rush, one he hadn’t fully experienced before. 

The air was filled with fiddle music and the sound of their half-English jargon, conversations somehow partially including him--or maybe about him? Siebren couldn’t quite tell and, after an hour or two, didn’t much care. This ceilidh business wasn’t so bad, really, and the fancy dress costumes, whatever they were, were quite nice. The way their legs moved--and the fluttering of the shawls! Quite a clever organization, truly.

He had been confused by the appearance of Moira, especially as she seemed determined  _ not _ to enjoy herself. Apparently she’d been invited--but she didn’t dance either. And after all the lengths she’d gone to in order to explain the social nuance: there she stood, poking at the same plate of meat and potatoes. Siebren kept to his own side of the room, happy to engage with any of the neighbors who recognized him or dragged him over to meet another friend or visiting relative--even so, he found himself watching for Moira, studying the odd way she held herself, the angles she seemed to define at odds with the rest of the room.

She was so uncomfortable, he realized, even as another woman with tawny hair babbled about her niece, or grand-niece, or cousin’s niece--someone or other. Moira was somehow hiding behind another table, avoiding the few men along the fringes searching for partners, and as she tripped over a gaggle of children, she almost shied back, disgust written on her features. 

Siebren was disappointed. For someone to work with medicine, to care for others, it required a certain kind of compassion, didn’t it? Especially for the weak and vulnerable. Siebren tried to recall what it had been like, Moira assisting him with the children, lifting a small body up to the table for examination. She hadn’t been... _ cold,  _ had she? He would have noticed that, certainly. 

Frustrated--with whom, he was not certain--Siebren extracted himself from the conversation and maneuvered across the room, still nibbling on a piece of vegetable matter as he thought. However, he was not familiar with the movement of crowds, and she was more skilled at the navigation. As soon as he reached the other side of the room, Moira had disappeared, leaving him among a gaggle of new conversations and asides. He tried to subtly scan further, feeling more like a bumbling child than a professional adult, and felt oddly sick at the sight of the lights and dancing. He didn’t  _ belong _ here, did he? Was he really the country doctor, bastion of the community? Because he still couldn’t remember half the names and any of the children, and he was still an outsider, wasn’t he. 

And yet Moira was the one who’d escaped.

Slipping back to the wall, Siebren made for the nearest door, shuddering with relief when he burst into the brisk night air. The cloud cover had relented for the night, and even with the light from the hall behind him, Siebren could see the fainter light of stars and the moon beaming on the hills around him. Further ahead, a figure was heading for the nearest road, and Siebren did not hesitate before going in pursuit. Her silhouette was becoming familiar to him: harsh, angular, and somehow imposing in its height.

“Moira!” He had to jog a bit to catch up, moving to her side, but he had to keep his expression neutral as she flinched away from him. Her expression was difficult to see in the changing light, and Siebren attempted to keep pace while also keeping a respectful distance. “Moira.”

“You should head back.” Her voice was still smooth and even--no sign of exertion. Siebren paused a moment to think, but continued walking with her. 

“The festivities seemed to be winding down. All the long goodbyes—”

“These usually last until two o’clock in the morning. You can go back.”

Siebren frowned. “No.”

“Siebren—”

“I don’t  _ want _ to go back.”

Moira sighed harshly, and Siebren was hard-pressed to explain  _ why _ this was so gratifying to him. All of their conversations seemed to turn so harsh, and yet it warmed him to hear her speak. “You’re a child.”

“Moira, I am tired. Really. And I can only take so much small talk.”

Moira continued walking, her eyes focused on the shadows of the road before them. It was a relatively short walk back to the village, truly, but the lack of lights made the world seem eerie and too large. It was several long moments before Siebren continued:

“I was worried. About you.” Moira snorted disdainfully, and Siebren tensed as he pushed ahead. “You left. And perhaps it isn’t my place, it isn’t my...my  _ role _ , but you left, and I--I was concerned.”

“ _ Touching _ .” Her brogue added another layer of sarcasm to the word, and Siebren hissed in a breath.

“You left.”

“They don’t need me there.”

“Then they don’t need me there.”

“This isn’t about  _ you _ , Siebren.” Moira snapped, arms folded tightly over her chest. “You’re the doctor.”

“And you’re my—” Siebren stopped himself, cursing himself as he did so.

“I’m an  _ assistant _ .” The venom was nearly palpable in Moira’s voice, and Siebren felt a scream rising in his throat. What an infuriating woman. “I’ve lived here too long to matter.”

“That’s not  _ true _ , Moira, I need you.” Siebren insisted, voice growing deeper. “I am not going to stand around and make idle chatter when I could be here.”

“Here? Stomping through the hills with a heretic bastard?” Moira laughed harshly, the knife’s edge of hysteria in her tone. “You don’t know what’s good for you, Siebren.”

“I don’t care.”

“‘Physician, heal thyself.’” Moira quoted, prompting Siebren to reach out and stop her in her tracks. He could feel the tension in her shoulders, the movement of her hands ready to slap him. “Get your hands—”

“I didn’t realize you could see the stars out here.” Siebren looked up, identifying the patterns and shapes that had filled his childhood. The great heroes, immortalized in starlight. His hands tightened unconsciously, keeping Moira fixed in place, and he finally released her only after a long moment of silence. “I miss the stars. Each one has a story, you realize, a place in our sky.”

“Siebren—” Moira backed away, a dark shape against the darkness of night, and Siebren waited again as a shudder ran through her body. He knew that he didn’t understand: but he meant what he said. He didn’t  _ care _ . “ _ Why _ .”

“If you aren’t going to stay inside, then perhaps you could...we could explore the more interesting avenues.” Suddenly struck by the impropriety of his assumptions, Siebren took a deep breath, clearing his head. “The books. Anatomy. Physiology. All the reading you’ve already done, plus the other natural sciences, astronomy, physics—”

“You’re  _ mad _ .”

“I went to school, originally, for astronomy. We thought--I thought I could make a life of it.” Siebren shook his head, shivering. “But there’s no money in astronomy for a bricklayer’s son, and everyone recommended I look at medicine. So I studied medicine. And now I am here.”

Moira stood in silence, the tension slowly easing from her shoulders. The chill was tangible to both of them now, piercing the layers of cloaks and shawls and socks. Finally, Moira stepped forward to take Siebren’s hand in both of her own. “These people. They don’t  _ understand _ .”

“You seem to have a problem with people understanding things.”

“They won’t ever call me a witch. Not aloud. But they think it. They look at me and see the spawn of Satan.”

“Moira—”

“The children try to ward me off. That’s the sign they make, with their hands. Even the ones who came to see me, the ones who  _ needed _ my help, they...ignore me, now.”

“You have talent, Moira. And they’re fools to not see it.”

“I  _ know _ that. But it doesn’t matter.” She exhaled harshly, turning away to continue walking. “I suppose I should be grateful. That you noticed.”

“I’m not the one who made you who you are.”

“No. But you are…” Moira shook her head, hands moving to her face, and Siebren bit his tongue to avoid asking further questions. He was walking behind her now, and unable to see the details of her expression--but perhaps that was her intention. “Tell me. About the stars.”

“Mm? Oh! Oh, well, this time of year, I especially love Orion.” Siebren nodded eagerly, satisfied with his favorite topic. “The great hunter, with his belt and tunic--his shoulder is formed by another star, above the three of his belt. And then you have the sisters, the seven of them--harder to see, here, I think.” Siebren moved as he talked, pointing for his own benefit to the rough sectors of sky where the constellations lay. “So many of them are royal, but I like Orion because he carved his own path. He hunted, and earned the attention of a goddess, but he never asked for the fame. He simply wanted to hunt well. And in a time when the world was more fluid--so the story goes, of course--it was easier to hang deserving men in the heavens.”

“Mm. And the sisters?”

“Right, well, as I said. Royals, all of them.” With the rhythm of a story carrying him through, Siebren found the chill easier to ignore, and the movement of walking kept his mind engaged. He’d gotten through the story of Cassiopeia, the Pleiades, and the Ursas before they’d returned to the clinic doors, and he blinked in surprise to recognize his own office. Moira was already opening the door as Siebren approached to enter, and they both hesitated on the doorstep as they readjusted to the relative warmth.

“Well.” Moira laughed curtly, the sound awkward and too loud in the darkened room. “I should be headed home.”

“You can--I mean. It is late. You could stay.”

“An unmarried woman staying the night in the company of an eligible bachelor? You may have studied,  _ Doctor _ de Kuiper, but you remain an utter fool.” Moira sighed, reaching up to grasp Siebren by the forearm. “Don’t let my problems become your problems. I just help with the medicines. You...you have a job to do.”

“Moira—”

“No.” She hushed him, averting her eyes to stare at his chest. Without warning, she suddenly pressed herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around him to hide her face in his shirt. Shocked by the movement, Siebren hesitated to respond, but slowly his arms rose to embrace her tightly, rocking gently with the pressure of her body. 

She was warm, somehow, warmer than he might have imagined, and the bones of her shoulders and hips pressed into him like the edges of a picture frame. Pressed against him, she was tall enough that her hair brushed the tip of his nose, and he squeezed her tightly enough that neither of them would forget the pressure quickly. Finally, mutually embarrassed, they drew apart, a few murmured words of farewell disappearing into the night as Siebren fled to his own rooms and Moira returned to the streets.

He didn’t understand. He knew that. He didn’t understand why Moira wasn’t  _ like _ the others, why people like Eireann and her father and the others avoided Moira, why he seemed to be the only one who cared at all that she was the most brilliant and dynamic person he’d met in the entire village. He didn’t understand how she could be so quick and sharp and forceful and then hesitate at times like this. He didn’t understand  _ how _ she remained unmarried.

The fact that this was his last thought before sleeping haunted him longer than he’d like to admit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references to early abortion methods. To avoid, skip from "I am not an idiot" to "You cannot list the prejudices of your world".

Siebren did not think of himself as an arrogant man. Although, in saying that, he recognized the inherent irony. He’d seen enough doctors in school who believed they were God’s gift to the world, and had to deal with enough of them to detest the type. But being here, among the ‘yokels’, it made him realize how nice it had been to be among, well...equals. 

The gifts never truly stopped, even once he’d gotten comfortable with them. He worked hard to be kind and courteous to each patient, even the doddering housewives complaining of yet another bout of ‘vapors’ or ‘head clouds’. With enough time, he found the mayor, the local lawyers, and even the priest coming to his door, dropping off their own pieces of advice or assuring him of their gratitude. He was never sure what they were grateful  _ for _ , but the attention was nice all the same. 

And yet, with all that, the specter of Moira remained in the back of his mind, haunting his office and lingering in his thoughts. They were frequently alone in the office, and yet they never returned to that conversation from the night of the ceilidh. The absence was palpable, and Siebren could not see a viable way to get it back. It frustrated him, and that only made him brood more and more. The silences stretched longer and longer, huge swaths of time eaten up by the ticking of the clock and shuffling of supplies. 

The sound of a door opening was something of a shock in the quiet atmosphere, and Siebren looked up sharply to see who might distract him from his own thoughts. The figure he spied was another young woman, but without the youthful energy of Eireann--no, she was smaller, bundled in shawl and skirt, plain brown hair tied into a tight bun. She reminded him of a librarian, overall, and he sat up in preparation for the process of determining her concern.

Before he could even say a word, however, Moira appeared at the door of the back room, glancing to him before beckoning the other woman forward. The silence was eerie, especially with the two women watching him so warily, but Siebren felt trapped by the intensity of their eyes. No one spoke. No one needed to speak. Without so much as a word, the other woman disappeared into the back room, Moira closing the door with a firm thud.

He must be dreaming. That was his conclusion, Siebren decided. Something about this fairy-land had infected his dreams and conjured ghost women.

Unbidden, the thought of fairies led him to the idea of witches, and Siebren sat up in irritation as his mind considered the idea. Witches were not  _ real _ . And Moira was not one. All this fanciful talk was nice enough for a storybook, but to let it affect your life? To let it taint your perception of reality? Nonsense. Siebren pinched his arm and winced with pain, uncertain whether to be annoyed, upset, or placidly accepting of his situation.

He could hear now the murmur of voices in the back room, movement creaking through the floorboards, and he tried to imagine what they might discuss. Had they come to talk? Did Moira actually have a friend in this town, one he’d not seen for so many months? Biting his lip, Siebren leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes to continue sorting through his thoughts. 

Several minutes later, the door reopened to let the librarian-woman exit, her eyes hooded and damp as she hurried to the exterior door. Siebren watched her go, standing to stretch his legs, and glanced back to see Moira watching him warily.

Again, that dreaded silence. That long, heavy tension.

“You don’t ask many questions.”

Siebren shrugged. “I’m not likely to get answers.”

“You...it must be so different on the Continent. You’re not even Catholic, are you.”

Siebren jerked back, stung by an odd sensation. Offense? He’d gone so long, too, without a specific discussion of his own faith—

No, that wasn’t true. The priest had visited, after all. But so many people had casually just  _ assumed _ that he believed in something. He’d attended some services, yes, visited the parish church to feel the weight of the stone and moss, but he hadn’t  _ engaged _ with the communion or confession. The village was content to leave him be, unshriven and potentially unsaved. But for Moira to ask?

“Are you?” Even as he said it, he winced again. It wasn’t the best way to try a new conversation.

As he’d thought, she bristled with irritation, but almost immediately, she relaxed again. “Doctor de Kuiper.” 

Her tone was soft, almost melancholy, and Siebren could feel the way it tore at his chest. Why could she do this to him? How did so few words and a simple change of expression transform the entire room? “O’Deorain. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not fair, is it.” Moira shook her head, resting against the doorframe. “ _ I  _ am sorry, Doctor. I think you’re realizing why I have few friends.”

“It is still a mystery to me, O’Deorain.”

“I do not  _ think _ before speaking. I know this. More than once have I confessed the sin of a lying tongue.” She sighed, staring at the ground. “We could both be heretics, with the right definition. But you are—”

“If you dare mention one more time that I am ‘different’, I swear I’ll—” Siebren paused, glancing at his desk. “I’ll throw a book at you.”

Moira wrinkled her nose, backing away slightly. “But you  _ are _ .”

“Moira. You are just as incredible, just as focused, and just as intelligent as I am. Our different backgrounds changes nothing about our mutual talents.”

“And yet you possess one vital thing which I do not, and that makes all the difference.”

“A professional degree—”

“I do not refer to your  _ degree _ .” Moira spat, gesturing meaningfully to Siebren’s form. “I have the weakness of a womb, which makes me insufficient for proper learning.”

“You have also been trapped in a village without the resources to send you.”

“Siebren—”

“No, Moira, I have been here long enough. And yes, it is a shithole. I see that. I know that. The people here scrape by and are grateful for the comfort they receive from their god, and that helps them survive. You are merely a, a, an aberration, growth stunted by lack of light and shallow roots, and yet with just the barest hint of sustenance, you  _ burst _ into this riot of color and fire—” Siebren shook his head, backing away to place a hand on his desk. “You cannot have stopped this. I’m--I’m sorry, I am sorry, this is not my place nor my position, but you have to  _ realize _ , Moira, that I am not an idiot and this constant discussion is grating. You despise me for my learning and my position and you envy me for the things I have. Yes. This is all true. And yet the young women come to you for their medicines when they do not trust me.”

“They do not trust a man to handle their deepest shame.” Moira shuddered, gripping the doorframe again. “Even when it was a man that granted them that shame originally.”

“I—” Siebren looked away, focusing on the small window to wade through the murky language. “Don’t you see what that gives you? Don’t you see how that makes you important?”

“I give them the pills that let them pass the unborn child. Most of them don’t even show when they come, and yet they’re desperate for  _ something _ .”

“Everyone is.” Siebren turned away, angered by the way his emotion thrummed in his hands and his wrists, thudding with his pulse. “You cannot list the prejudices of your world, Moira, and still cling to them with such fervor.”

There was no response, and Siebren looked back to her in sudden distress. They’d gone without speaking for so long, only to come to this—

Moira was simply watching him, still in her position within the doorframe. Her silence was simply a part of her usual demeanor. But her eyes glittered, their color a deep azure, and Siebren felt himself unable to look away. He wanted to curse her. Truly curse her, the way all her neighbors did. But her stare stopped his tongue, flustered his rebuttals, and he simply...stared. 

“You think I cling to them.” Her voice was flat and emotionless. Somehow, that tore at him more than her earlier displays of weakness had done. “That I...that I  _ want _ their abuse.”

“No. Not consciously. But every time you speak, you regurgitate the same thoughts. You are more than that.”

“You have no place to say that.”

“I have every place. Who else in this village has spent more time with you? Whether by choice or by necessity, we know each other. And I know that you believe the same series of lies that they do.”

“I cannot—” Moira shook her head, her nails digging into the wood of the doorframe. Siebren held himself in place, resisting the urge to storm forward, to grab her (the way he’d done after the ceilidh, standing there in the cold starlight— ) and shake some sense into her. That silence returned, trapping them together, and finally Moira stormed forward to push past him and escape through the front door of the clinic. Siebren turned to watch her go, but made no move to follow, returning instead to his desk to resume his perusal of an old textbook. 

He could not claim to be a wise man. He knew the details of the human body, and he had some passing knowledge of humanity writ large. He knew how to track the stars and map the quadrants, if such skills were needed. And he knew that Moira O’Deorain needed more help than she was willing to accept.

He only hoped his arguments would win over her stubbornness sooner rather than later.


	5. Chapter 5

The truth was that Siebren was not exactly young, anymore. He had been young once. He had been a strong, broad, powerful young man, equally at home on a sport field as he was in the autopsy room. But now the chill was biting into him, eating at his fingers and toes, and even as he tried to curl around his small lantern, he regretted the economics that limited his coal. The wood was available sometimes, but Ireland was not famous for its thick forests--at least not here. 

At the same time, he was not old. He would not look at himself and consider himself old. He had simply moved out of the first youthful burst of energy that had carried him through medical school. Those old daydreams about the stars, about the whirring of planets and the elegant symmetry of equations. He couldn’t much remember it anymore. That comfortable camaraderie of sitting around a table with other mathematicians, puzzling out a difficult sequence, and pulling out the deepest secrets. That was so far away now--another landmass entirely. That entire life was a different one.

Groaning, Siebren sat up on his bed and tried to gaze out of his window, but the old glass and relative darkness made it difficult for him to focus. He wasn’t that student any longer. His life now was just a pounding repetition of midwifery and husbandry, of stretching anaesthetics and rationing morphine. And O’Deorain.

He hated what she’d become to him. A thorn in his side, and an impossibly elegant, intense, and sarcastic one at that. She was the thing keeping him sane in this muddy little town, and yet they couldn’t bear to be alone together for more than a minute without getting into a fight.

As their supplies had gotten low, he’d ordered more from the big cities, but their suppliers didn’t seem to care much about the quantity or honesty of their shipments. And there were materials that needed to be replaced, scalpels and forceps that he truly winced to use. But he couldn’t simply order them. He would have to make a trip, and then he’d thought...he’d imagined asking Moira. O’Deorain. Whichever she was, lately. Would she appreciate the gesture? The clinic would pay for her fare, and it would be well worth her while...but then she might just think he was sending her on a useless errand, and insist on being offended.

He could never tell what might set her off--and that made it all the more difficult to learn more about this place. The women were kind, yes, but not all that  _ interesting _ . And the men were loyal, almost dangerously so, and they still didn’t entirely trust him, and so every conversation lingered on the topic of the weather and the crops. That was why Moira was so important. She was the only hint of  _ difference _ .

He rubbed his face in fatigue. This was getting him nowhere. If he could just read a nice, normal book, and sleep like a nice normal human being, he might feel somehow better in the morning. 

A thud from the direction of the door interrupted him, and he jerked in surprise to determine the source of the noise. After a long moment, the firmer sound of a single knock made him stand, moving to the door to see if someone actually needed him. As he opened it, a movement in the shadows made him tense, and he waited before slowly recognizing the shape of a tall woman.

“Moira.” He didn’t move, stuck in the doorway of his tiny (absurdly tiny, ridiculously tiny) living quarters while Moira hovered on the staircase. No one spoke, the darkness swallowing them up, until Siebren finally stepped forward to offer a hand. “Moira, what--”

“I just needed--” She inhaled, a deep shuddering breath that wracked her whole body, a hand propping her against the wall. “I. I’m going to be. I think I’m. I’m simply going to stay in the clinic tonight, if you. If I may.”

“Moira.” Siebren felt the tension creep down his spine, a cold rush of fear that made his heart race. The way she was speaking was too stilted, too formal, and he couldn’t see her properly. Instead of waiting, Siebren reached forward, grabbing for Moira’s arms to pull her up the stairs and toward him. He didn’t know why, but this time she felt so small and thin, so frail in his hands, and he pulled her forward to feel her tremble before him.

“Doctor--”

“What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“She--I just.” Moira trembled, not just shuddered, and Siebren wanted to reach out and  _ punch _ something right in the nose. Not Moira. Never Moira. But whatever it was in the dark, forbidding outside that had dared to make her...like this. “My. I just can’t stay there. My mother--”

“ _ What? _ ”

“She threw me out. I can’t stay there, not anymore, not with her and she--” Moira inhaled a deep shaky breath, pressing forward to hide against Siebren’s bulk. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll find a place in the morning but I can’t--”

“Shh.” Siebren adjusted his grip, wrapping his arms around Moira to hide her from the darkness. He couldn’t pretend to understand this, he couldn’t pretend to be an expert on the details of this situation, but Moira was in danger and she was hurt and he couldn’t just let her  _ go _ , not back into the hunger of the waiting darkness. He didn’t need to know in order to help her. 

Shuffling backwards, Siebren half-dragged her into the relative warmth of his rooms, lowering them both to the ground so that he could pull her into his lap. Never mind the book, or the coal, or the lantern now. As he moved, Moira continued to press herself into him, lifting herself to press her face against his shoulder and hide there, unmoving. Siebren’s hands lifted to her shoulders, pressing firmly against the broad shoulder blades to keep her in place. 

He didn’t know how long it took, he truly couldn’t tell, but Moira seemed to shudder for moments and then relax, pressing ever closer with each cycle. Their movement, their half-fall into this tangled mess, kept her close to him, and Siebren found his hands moving gently to press against different portions of her back and spine. All the ligatures and cartilage, all the tendons and the ribs pressing against--Siebren gasped, trying to shove away the idea of bodies on tables while also trying to ignore the very feminine reality of Moira’s closeness. 

However, his movement startled her, and Moira immediately began to pull away as she detangled herself from his body. The shadows made it difficult to tell where they were, oriented relative to one another, and Siebren ended up grabbing roughly at her angles to keep her down with him. “Moira.”

“Sie--” She kept stopping herself that way, the breath stopping in her throat. He hated it. His grip tightened, and he pulled at her. When had he become so rough? What did she do to him?

“You’re staying here.” He murmured, trying to force his fingers to loosen. And yet she wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t resisting, and he sat up to cradle her more gently in his arms. She sagged against him, her body lax with a wave of fatigue, and he shushed her gently as he tried to lend her his meager warmth. This wasn’t the time for uncomfortable questions. He’d learned, finally, that all the talking was useless at the end. This, the grabbing and holding,  _ this _ is what got through to her.

Perhaps they’d find out more in the morning. Or perhaps they wouldn’t. Either way, this time would be enough. 

++

The sun was wan and pale, making the sky look like dirty dishwater, and Siebren frowned as he hunched over the grisly cup of coffee he’d made. It was difficult, getting started this way and trying to get the clinic into order before patients began arriving. He’d managed to get dressed, to go through his morning routine without too much disruption, but now he was faced with the prospect of forcing food down his throat, and the prospect was simply tedious. Taking tiny sips of the coffee, he tried to help his brain clear, and found himself focusing on the woodgrain of his table when a noise from behind him made him turn. 

“I--” Moira had awoken, and now in the morning light, Siebren could see that she was still wearing a usual workday outfit, wrinkled with sleep. Her eyes were bleary and her hair was mussed, but she held herself with a new hesitation, an uncertainty. Siebren stood, tempted to rush to her again, but the development of morning had changed things slightly. Hadn’t it?

“Siebren, I shouldn’t. Ah. I shouldn’t be here.” Moira shook her head, pressing a hand against her brow. “I’m so…Damn.  _ Damn _ .”

“Moira.” Siebren spoke, now moving forward to interrupt this flow of conversation. He couldn’t let her do this again. “Moira, I am--I am so  _ glad _ you came, that you felt you could come here--”

“I spent the  _ night _ .” Moira shuddered, turning away. “Damn it, don’t you see--”

“ _ Stop _ .” Siebren insisted, his voice growing harsh. “I am not going to play these games, Moira. I am not going to sit here and talk in circles while still drinking my coffee. You came to me. You came to me when you needed help and I--I can only hope to somehow, someday, repay that trust. Now: sit down, and I will get you something to eat.”

“Sentimental ass.” Moira protested, stomping to a chair before collapsing into a mass of limbs and wrinkled fabric. “You’re not meant to do all this.”

“ _ Moira _ .” Siebren would not shout. He was not a man to shout. But the woman had literally been here for hours and she was still trying to pretend that she didn’t care. Hands tensing with irritation, Siebren stood behind the other chair, staring at her. “What do you  _ want _ ?”

Moira looked up at him, her brow furrowed, but she didn’t speak even as she held his gaze. It was so rare to earn her full attention like that, and Siebren returned that evaluation as steadily as she offered it. It was unusual, certainly. He’d never noticed that edge of...of uncertainty, of fear, lurking just beneath her intensity.

“I don’t know.” She finally replied, turning back to stare at the table. Just as he’d been doing, a few moments ago. 

“You had to leave your...your home?” He’d never thought about it before. Clearly she lived somewhere. And perhaps...not any longer. “She threw you out.”

“It’s.” Moira waved a hand wearily, leaning forward against the table. “You don’t want this.”

“I want  _ you _ .” Siebren insisted, ignoring the flutter of panic that welled in his chest. “You are so brilliantly, infuriatingly intelligent, and yet you don’t seem to understand that I don’t  _ care _ what it is you do or who you are but that you’re  _ important _ , Moira O’Deorain.”

And with that, Moira collapsed against his table and began to sob, her arms rising to curl over her head.

It was so easy to grasp at her, to lift her into his arms, and Siebren felt himself moving automatically to press his lips to the warmth of her brow. It was so  _ easy _ with her, even after she’d made him angry enough to smash something, and Siebren groaned with frustration as he pulled her against his shoulder. Damn the patients. Damn the world. They could just stay  _ here _ and ignore all that, forever.

“Moira.”

“ _ Damn _ . I am--I can’t be here, I can’t--”

“Why? Because of them? Because you can’t be tainted with the label of a loose woman? Because the fools of this place have such a hold on you? You can reach out and brush the minds of geniuses, and yet you listen to...to  _ sheep farmers _ .”

She barked out a tearful laugh at that, grasping onto his shirt. “I don’t understand you, Doctor de Kuiper.”

“We’ve discussed it before. You’re too tied to this place.”

“I can’t leave.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“I don’t--” Moira shook her head, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “What is--What is this? I come here and you let me rest here and now we’re--”

“You should stay.” Siebren hummed softly to interrupt her, disentangling himself from her grip. “Permanently. You already spend enough time here, it wouldn’t change much.”

“We aren’t going to be ‘doctor’ and ‘assistant’ any longer, Siebren.”

“Well. No. Not unless you want to be.” Siebren shrugged, backing away to study her as she composed herself. “But you seem to get so  _ confused _ when we talk. Do we have to explain everything all at once?”

“I.” Moira blinked, slowly shaking her head. “And you’re not worried about the...the people, the McCulloughs and the Eireanns and all the weddings and--”

“What are they going to do? Dismiss me?” With that, Siebren offered a crooked smile, pleased to earn a smile in response. Yes, it seemed things could change. And without all the difficulty that Moira seemed to expect. Slowly, surely, just like setting a bone and letting it heal properly...he could make this better. 


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up was so damn difficult.

The entire world was gray, it seemed, even on the sunny days when she escaped up into the hills. It had been gray for years now, the monotony of her life congealing around her like a tiny piece of glass melted down into slag. It took effort to wake up, it took effort to get to sleep, and yet she handled the little bottles that could have promised relief if she was weak enough to take it.

Moira recognized that she was nothing special. She was  _ unusual _ , yes, but that didn’t mean much in a small town like this. Her oddities made her disliked, ignored by the men and disdained by the women up until they needed her. Years, it had been, pretending that the town had no doctor all while she kept ordering the morphine and syringes and scrounging for the homegrown varieties of root distillations and herbal teas. They damn well needed her then, and yet they’d come in now to see  _ Siebren _ and never spare her a second glance.

And then for him to pretend it was so easy to simply move on--

Despite the anger in her bearing, she never slammed or jarred the bottles. Each vial was expensive, probably worth more than her life, and she wasn’t about to jeopardize them because of a fit of temper. She knew better than that. 

It was a legacy she’d inherited. She had that weight on her shoulders, the knowledge that her mother remained  _ here _ . The O’Deorains were not a particularly old nor particularly new family, but there were very few of them. She, and her mother, were the last of the name in the town: all the others had moved far afield. The man who’d graced them with the title had died young, and his cause of death varied with the time of day and her mother’s sobriety.

That was another reason to hide here. The clinic might be small, but it was her space--it had been, at least, until Siebren arrived. And her mother would never come here. Found it shameful that Moira would dare to come at all. If you’d asked Ella O’Deorain, she would have rather forgotten her daughter entirely, and continued her spiral around the neck of a bottle. 

That would have been effective if Moira had married.  _ Properly _ , of course. Everyone loved weddings, but no one could imagine marrying the awkward, boyish Moira. She’d heard  _ that _ refrain often enough, for it was her mother’s first line of attack. “Unmarried. Un-marryable. No man wants to touch  _ you _ .” Marriage would have been an escape, even if the thought of physical intimacy with any of the idiots here made Moira recoil. A life spent catering to a man’s brutish needs and bearing his babies--well, it might have been enough for her mother, but it would not satisfy her.

As Moira had aged, her mother’s insults had merely changed form slightly, never losing vigor. It was her hair. Her clothes. Their lack of money. Her lack of a husband. Even her father’s death could be blamed on Moira, given enough energy. Nothing she did would be enough, and as much as Moira ignored the diatribe during the dark evenings, she could never shut it out.

Charting the usage on the ledger for the pills and poultices, Moira listened to the hum of voices from the other room, Siebren’s comforting baritone providing a steady underpinning to the conversation. She had been wary, at first. No, not wary:  _ terrified _ . A male doctor returning to  _ her  _ clinic would have destroyed her, would have ruined everything. And then he turned out to be entirely incompetent, ignoring the basics of payment and medication. But he  _ tried _ . He didn’t question her presence, not once, and he never flew into a rage and he never tried to push her out. He accepted her, letting her work, even when she simply spent day after day rearranging the bottles in her usual little mantra. He never questioned the work she did. And then he’d offered his books.

Even now, the offer made her pause. The books he’d dragged from Holland, over land and sea, and he would just...offer them to her as if they were candies to be shared. True to his word, he’d assisted with the translations when she’d needed it, and the sound of his voice--the sight of his finger on a page, tracing a difficult declension--stayed with her, even in the depths of night, soothing her to sleep.

A door unlatched and Siebren stepped out, escorting a young couple back to the front door of the clinic. Moira kept her back to them, remaining a minor feature in the background, but she could feel the movement of the air as they departed and Siebren moved through the front room. She returned to the medications, trying to assess their contents visually, and she could hear the shuffle of papers as Siebren tried to tackle the mess of his desk. He was still in so many ways a student, wide eyed and amazed. He tried so hard to share it with her, too, this  _ world _ he seemed to inhabit full of wonderful things. She couldn’t believe it. Not the way he did. But she humored him, if only to listen to him speak.

Turning partially, Moira paused in her work to watch Siebren move. The light was strong enough today to catch in his hair, lightening the few strands of silvery gray that had begun to appear. His coat was neatly trimmed, and his clothes were well-fitted even after several months of living here. A pang of regret made her chest ache: he did deserve better. He deserved better than this town, and he deserved better than  _ her _ .

They didn’t much talk about...her situation. She rarely could. She’d been thrown out at the end of a particularly violent argument, with her mother screaming until she’d nearly had a fit, and now Moira made a space for herself in the clinic around the clock. She slept better now, even though she didn’t use a mattress. And Siebren was always there.

His hands moved over the pages, deft and careful. Moira didn’t stop herself: she stared, because it was easy to stare. He did have fine hands. Strong, and sure. She knew now how warm they were, how gently he used them to press against a body. A man strong enough to set bones and staunch bleeding, and yet careful enough to soothe the children when they came to him, comforting them with smiles and soft words. It had worked on her. She cursed herself for the weakness, but it had worked. He’d held her, and soothed her, and then he’d done it again in the light of day. He never asked questions.

_ He deserves better _ . The thought was impossible to stop, and Moira felt herself tensing as she turned away. She couldn’t even enjoy this, could she. This quiet, soft comfort, and it wouldn’t be allowed to stay. 

Her hands rested on the bottles, and she imagined his hands covering hers. The calluses from pen and paper, not the roughness of a farm hand. The careful surety, tracing her body with the expertise of years of study. Not just holding her, but  _ grasping _ her, his body pressing flush against hers. That he would beckon her into his quarters, that she had allowed him in here: they had both made these concessions, creating a new shared space with enough room for each of them, and yet even that wouldn’t be enough. Moira trembled to imagine it again, to imagine him approaching her, the way he ignored her token protests and still never tried to hurt her--just hold her, and talk about the stars, and say things like ‘I  _ want _ you.’

No one had ever wanted her.

She wanted so desperately to be wanted.

“Moira?”

The sound of her name made her jump, and Moira turned to grab at the shelf behind her. She was not  _ like  _ this. She would never have been this way for a man--but there was Siebren, standing again to face her half-heartedly, staring at his shoes.

“I was thinking, looking at the ledgers, we...well, we need some supplies, and I need to get them myself. It’s all the way in the city, and--that is, you’ve handled them for so long, I think you should...come with. I mean that we should travel together.”

“Oh.” She said flatly, shaking off the lingering flush of her daydream. “You... _ want _ us to travel together.”

“Please.” Suddenly she could see the redness of his ears, the way he still avoided approaching too closely. He was expecting her to say ‘no’. She nearly laughed at the idea, the absurdity of it all. He’d halfway taken her in and hadn’t pressured her for answers and simply let her  _ be _ , and yet he was still afraid to ask for her company.

He couldn’t be  _ afraid _ . Not after everything they’d done. And yet, in retrospect, what had they done? What had she given him? Those few moments of togetherness, when he’d insisted on pulling her through? And he’d not asked for anything. 

“Siebren.” His name was still unfamiliar in her mouth, awkwardly shaped to a Gaelic ear. He looked up at her, those periwinkle eyes like the cloudiness of a tide pool, and she reached forward to grab his hands. Those hands, the hands she’d been imagining--now warm and real under her fingers, alive and humming with energy. 

She hadn’t had this--ever. Not before with a man had she been  _ compelled _ like this. But she’d never before been evicted from her home, never had she finally incited her mother’s fury to such extent, never had she made that step to finally  _ leave _ . Going to the city with Siebren? With this man she could spend  _ years _ with? That, she could give.

She’d refused to accept his hospitality and sleep in the proper quarters. She helped with the cooking, yes, but she’d never shared the room. As she considered the idea of going  _ away _ , of being somewhere  _ else _ , a flourish of inspiration warmed her heart, and she smiled as she drew closer.

“I would be glad to come with.” She assured him. “Just so long as you let  _ me  _ handle the tricky negotiations, yes?”

“Of course!” He blurted, overwhelmed by her advance. “I-That is, that’s why I want you there--why I want you to come, to help and to see--”

“Then we’re settled.” She nodded firmly, releasing him. “I’ll begin packing straight away.”

“Good.” Siebren nodded a reply, slightly dazed. “We’ll...I’ll make the arrangements.”

As she turned back to the ledgers, Moira smiled to herself, lost again in a world of her own imagination. A city, with thousands of people, a place where no one knew them--it would be perfect. She’d finally be free to do as she needed. And there wouldn’t be a single thing to stop her.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Arranging the departure had been straightforward enough. Tickets and packing were easy, all things considered. And, in the end, it wasn’t as if the town would fall apart without a doctor. Siebren was comfortable that he could leave at least for a while. 

And Moira had agreed to come with him.

_ That _ was a concept he still couldn’t quite accept. He knew that his impulses, whatever they were, couldn’t be allowed to control him, and he wouldn’t let his random thoughts dictate his behavior towards Moira. She was an invaluable part of his work, and he couldn’t frighten her away. 

She’d prepared with just as much effort as he had, organizing the clinic and preparing her bag. Her items had all been packed from when she’d moved out of her mother’s house, but he didn’t want to pry, and so he didn’t ask. Even so, there were times when she’d  _ smile _ now, watching him as they moved through the clinic together. She reached for him now sometimes, grasping for his hand when she explained something or another. He couldn’t allow himself to imagine anything more, but sometimes in the dark of night, he’d think about that smile. How much had he been able to do? How much had he helped? He couldn’t be sure. But she was coming  _ with _ him.

The train was sparsely populated, with most of the other seats containing businessmen or dowdy governesses. They lived their own lives, he was sure, off in some other part of this wide countryside, but Siebren was unconcerned with their problems. Their bags were packed, their tickets stamped, and he could barely contain his excitement at having Moira seated beside him. 

God, it made him sound like a child when he put it like that. But she sat by the window, the light framing her cheekbones to make her look like a classical statue, and as the train pulled out of the station, Siebren knew he was staring. Even so, Moira didn’t say anything to dissuade him, and Siebren settled in for a comfortable trip.

He allowed himself to doze as they picked up speed, the countryside rushing by, and he could make out the movement of Moira’s profile against the light of the window. He was unsure how long passed in this Elysian state, but as he drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness, a gentle pressure made him shift slightly, and he opened his eyes slightly to determine the source of the distraction. It was tracing along his thigh, reminding him that there were armrests between the seats, and he adjusted his posture to try and find the item causing the distraction.

It took him a moment to realize that the pale form on his thigh was a  _ hand _ , fingers lightly tracing over the fabric. He tried not to react, his muscles tensing despite his best effort, but he gradually realized that it was Moira,  _ Moira, _ playing with his trousers, touching him just lightly enough to make him gasp and tense all at once.

She couldn’t know what she was doing. She couldn’t! Here, on a train in the middle of the day--Siebren shook himself awake, sitting up suddenly to try and take stock of his surroundings. As he adjusted himself, he glanced at Moira’s seat to find her sitting perfectly contained, her hands in her lap with no hint of the teasing she’d offered before.

Siebren cleared his throat as he sat up, trying to focus on the necessary items for the excursion. They had all their money, their packing materials, enough space in the trunks to carry back whatever they’d find. He was hoping to find something truly remarkable, perhaps enough syringes to restock the entire clinic, and catch up on some of the newer publications in research. It wouldn’t be much, but maybe…

They’d have to find lodgings, of course. Most suppliers would need time to organize a shipment for moving, and Siebren wondered how much of their money would need to go to lodging. He hadn’t discussed it previously with Moira, since the issue might find a reasonable resolution, but as they drew nearer to the city, it weighed ever more heavily on his mind. 

The flurry of movement after their train arrived at the station meant that he and Moira were caught in the rush, the bigger city swallowing all their attention and energy. He was able to direct them to the correct side streets, but Moira had to read the street signs for him to know where they were going, and the lengths of street they had to pace certainly made their calves ache. After finding the correct address, each of them took a moment to simply sit and rest again, catching their breath with exchanged looks of amusement.

“Well?” Moira prompted. “Has it changed at all?”

“The city?” Siebren shook his head, rolling his shoulders to dispel the ache. “No, no. I have changed, I think. Have you been before?”

“No. I haven’t been out of the county before, and that was only for parties, and things…” Moira shrugged, standing suddenly. “Should we go in?”

“Only if you want.” Siebren offered, gazing up at her. She was so  _ tall _ . It was impressive, truly, like a queen who could gaze down on her subjects. He wanted to say something, to express something, but after he blinked repeatedly, he ended up saying: “You’re  _ tall _ .”

She glanced at him, her expression blank. Shaking off the misstep, Siebren stood to enter the small supplier’s storefront, putting out the thoughts of Moira and all their non-conversations. Negotiations were on the table now, the simple process of buying and selling, and he had to be focused.

As he perused the wares, Moira patted his shoulder, murmuring something he barely heard as she moved past. 

“Wait--”

“I’ll find us a room. I promise, it will be cheap.” Moira nodded as she neared the door, pausing only to make eye contact with Siebren before she ducked outside, abandoning him to the process. He tried to return to his main goal, to assess the prices and selection available, but Moira’s easy exit confused him. She was simply going to...go? To leave? 

And what had she said?  _ A  _ room?

What exactly did that mean?

++

There was a certain pleasure in maneuvering the streets alone. It wasn’t an experience she’d been able to enjoy before, and it was exhilarating. Yes, she’d organized a portion of the money: she’d had to collect it, after all. And she had it now tucked into her bodice, part of her own adventure. Now if she could just accomplish her next goal…

Identifying a safe room was her biggest priority. Fortunately, the city had no lack of options, and her glare was enough to scare off any wayward passers-by. Entering a small, homey establishment, Moira squared her shoulders and approached the wooden desk, arranging her bills in her hand.

“Well hello there! What can we look at starting today?” The woman at the desk grinned almost wildly, surprising Moira with her enthusiasm. Moira hesitated before nodding once, offering a careful smile.

“It’s--well, I need a room.” She bobbed once in a faux-curtsey, the movement unpracticed and unusual. “It’s for myself and my husband. We just recently were wed, married, you know--”

“Oh!” The woman suddenly beamed, hopping in delight as she scrambled for a key. “What a pleasure, what a delightful pleasure, so--so you’ll be wanting a proper room, of course! Congratulations, my dear, what  _ wonderful _ congratulations!”

“Yes, well.” Moira flushed, scrambling to set some of her bills on the desk. She’d forgotten about  _ congratulations _ . “We just need something simple, nothing big--”

“Nonsense, it’s the slow season anyway.” The woman fussed, presenting a small bill before counting Moira’s offered cash. “So you’re from the country then--so glad you could make it here! So your husband must have business, unless you’re able to spend the honey month traveling? How exciting!”

Moira shook her head, befuddled by the rush of words. Mutely, she accepted the key offered her and signed the appropriate forms, keeping the key close as she nodded her thanks and followed the hostess to the rooms. It was a single room, but well-furnished with a proper fireplace. After confirming the address, Moira began the trek back to the supplier’s shop, pleased to find Siebren concluding his work efficiently. 

They made the usual small talk with the shopkeep as Siebren paid the money, but Moira deflected his first few questions as they began their walk back. It was easier, now that she knew where she was going, but his confusion only amused her, and she found herself smiling easily as they drew nearer to the boarding house. 

“Moira?”

“Siebren.” She replied easily, finding herself laughing as they adjusted their bags. Siebren had the heavier load, of course, but she had her own load to bear. As they neared the residential neighborhoods, she took refuge in Siebren’s confused glances, finally reaching out to loop her arm with his. “Siebren. Doctor de Kuiper.”

“Moira O’Deorain.” Oddly, his voice held a tone of reprimand, and that familiar fear returned. It was so immediate, the way it froze her blood in her veins--but Moira pushed through.

“I took care of our lodgings.” She confirmed, pressing close to feel his body heat. Though confused, he did not push her away, and she reveled in the scent of him. Surely he hadn’t forgotten her little overtures on the train, had he? 

“Yes, I rather assumed you had.” Siebren swallowed, adjusting his grip on his luggage. “I would have done that, if you wanted.”

“No. I needed to do it.” She insisted, leading him down the next street. “You don’t know what it’s like, Siebren, being  _ here _ , being...away.”

He was quiet for a long moment, tightening his grip on her arm. Instead of confining, the pressure felt reassuring: as if he wasn’t about to let her go. “This is what I said, Moira, this is why I wanted you to come. You are...someone  _ else _ , outside of that place.”

“It is my home. Even now. But. Yes. You were right.” Moira nodded her confirmation, keeping him close as they came to the door. “And being here, being  _ away _ , has helped me realize many things. Not only about myself. But about you.”

“Moira, I--”

“No. Listen. I, ah.” She’d waited a bit too long to have this conversation, hadn’t she. But she wasn’t about to stop them. “No one knows us here. No one needs to know us. And I may have, ah. Misled our landlady about our exact relationship.”

“Moira.” Again, that tone of reprimand. Moira felt the fear creeping up into her throat now, tight and painful, but she also heard the movement of another person behind the door of their boarding house. A knob began turning, Siebren began moving, and on impulse, Moira dropped her luggage and pulled Siebren to her in order to crush her lips against his in a messy, uncoordinated kiss.

The gasp she heard was enough confirmation that their landlady was able to bear witness to this travesty of lovemaking, and Moira pulled away from Siebren in order to smile sheepishly. The landlady winked knowingly, tutting over the two of them as they hefted their luggage inside, and Moira led Siebren along in a daze as she brought them to their rented room. Siebren made a few token noises of protest, nearly complaining as Moira set his luggage aside, but did not resist as Moira pushed him onto the bed and sat beside him, her shoes discarded near the door. The door had been locked behind them, and the sky outside was already darkening with early twilight. With her hand on his arm, Moira shifted closer, gripping Siebren’s hand with her newfound energy.

“We have one room.” She confirmed for him, amazed at the wide confusion in his eyes. Like a child, sometimes, he would simply stare…

“You  _ kissed _ me.”

“I couldn’t really rent a single room without explaining to the landlady that we were, um.” Moira shrugged, shifting back. “She believes we’re married.”

“ _ Married? _ ” Siebren rocked back in shock, blinking rapidly.

“It was the best way--”

“Married!” Siebren laughed aloud, turning quickly to grab both of Moira’s hands. “You never cease to surprise me.”

“Well.” Moira grinned, pleased by the warm reception. “I did wonder if it was too forward. But you kept reminding me of how I need to think about myself more often. And the things I want.”

“And you want this.”

“I want as much as you’re willing to give me.” Moira nodded, curling close at last to lay her legs over Siebren’s lap. Such a casual, comfortable intimacy--perhaps the little charade of ‘marriage’ had helped her more than it had helped the landlady. “We’ll have to go down for dinner before seven. The times were posted in the front hall.”

“Yes. Well.” Siebren lifted a hand to Moira’s chin, eyeing her carefully before leaning close. “We have time enough before then.”

“Time enough for what?” Even as she said it, she regretted the outburst. Fortunately, Siebren’s smile never wavered, and Moira found herself warming anew as Siebren gently, lightly touched his lips to hers. None of the ragged jerkiness of her earlier kiss: this was careful, almost cautious. 

“So you’re not angry with me.” Moira questioned as they pulled away, feeling the pressure of Siebren’s hand now at the small of her back. 

“I am not angry with you.” He affirmed, pulling her closer to kiss her cheek.

“And you want me to stay here.”

“I want you to stay wherever I am for the rest of forever.” Siebren confirmed again, ducking lower to kiss the line of her jaw. “What I have realized, Moira O’Deorain, is that you are very bad at  _ asking _ for things, but you are very good at taking them.”

“Doctor--”

“You never asked to rent a room together. You simply took it. You never asked to assist me, you simply...took it. You never asked for my affections, either, and yet here you are.” Siebren pressed his head against the hollow of her neck, lifting her in his lap. “Taking them all without complaint.”

“Siebren.” Moira chided, running her hands into his dark hair. “You should stop talking.” It was so pleasant now to feel him start, the jump of sudden shock and embarrassment, but Moira gripped him more tightly to push into his warmth. “There are much better things you could be doing with your mouth by now. Get to work,  _ doctor _ .”

As Siebren smiled, then complied, Moira closed her eyes to let herself acclimate to this new possibility. A man who wanted her. A man who found her charming, and intelligent, and  _ attractive _ . A man who wouldn’t let go, and was committed to proving his enthusiasm.

In the long run, she decided, it might not be such a shame if they did miss dinner.


	8. Chapter 8

With the lengthening spring days, Moira had taken to wandering the hills more often. She would bring the medicines to those who needed them, make her rounds for the patients with more dire needs, and wait until the sun went down, watching the first stars twinkle overhead. Siebren never pressed her for details, and she loved him more for that: his warm, comforting solidity, his trust in her. Her mother had never trusted her to go anywhere, to do anything. Half the village still saw her as that awkward, angry girl, with whispers of witchcraft and sorcery. Oh, it all came to nothing in the end. The father at their parish would never dream of leading a full inquisition. But she did not take the sacraments with the others, she did not attend Confession as well as she ought, and so this portion of village life was forever closed to her.

She had wondered about the witches of other years. If the stories told were merely fantasy, and there had been others like her: others, women who scorned men and preferred their own company, who knew enough to stop the spread of fever and the proper poultices for wounds, which had gained the title unfairly. There was no way of knowing, but she still wondered. More often her curiosity had turned her to Siebren’s books, the huge volumes he’d brought with him from Amsterdam, and she’d devoured the strange words in a variety of languages. 

She was his  _ assistant _ . No mere maid or housewife. She had a purpose. And that was as much as she needed.

When she entered the clinic through the back door, she found Siebren at his desk, surrounded by his traditional pile of papers. A single lantern was trying valiantly to keep the room lit, and Moira moved forward to reach for Siebren’s shoulder. He was rereading a letter, but she was unable to make sense of the words by reading over his shoulder. 

“You get a lot of mail.” She reached up to smooth his hair, kissing the top of his head. “Popular, you are.”

“They don’t seem to understand that I am busy.” Siebren closed his eyes, leaning back against her. “I don’t know that I could leave.”

“We went to Dublin once. That was leaving.”

“Yes, but only for a day. If we went to Amsterdam, that would be a month at least.”

“Amsterdam.” Moira nodded, musing to herself. “It could be done.”

“Moira--”

“You overestimate your importance, Siebren. Particularly with the salary you receive.”

“I can’t just  _ leave _ .”

“We could.” Moira assured him, cupping his chin. “Siebren, do you want to visit?”

“We--I was. A friend has invited me to visit. He works with the university still.”

“Do you miss him?” Moira pushed him back slightly, shivering with chill. “Siebren, you should go.”

“You are very concerned about this, madam.” Siebren adjusted his seat, watching her more intently. “Perhaps I could send you in my stead.”

“I--” Moira tensed. “I. I don’t speak the language.”

“Mm. This is true. I must escort you, then, as interpreter.” Siebren stood, turning down the lantern before feeling her cheeks. “Out again, were you? Watching the stars?”

“You should see them. There are--”

“There is an observatory in Amsterdam. It would be worth the effort, I think.” Siebren suddenly grasped her by the waist, pulling her to him. “You’ve convinced me.”

“Siebren--”

“Luuk will understand, I am sure. Especially as you are a fellow scholar. Besides, I know so much now about this place: it is time you learned more about my homeland.” Siebren nodded decisively, releasing Moira to move towards the stairs to the upper level. “Tomorrow, we make our plans. I will need your help, Moira. No room for distraction.”

Moira shook her head, remaining quiet as she followed Siebren upstairs. He always had such energy with his decisions, even his quickly-made ones. And yet--the prospect of leaving again, not just for a day or two but for weeks? An elated giddiness crept over her, infecting her step as she prepared for sleep. Their days would be busy indeed: but she would be working with  _ him _ .

And to see Amsterdam? To visit, with him? To have entire days devoted only to--

No, no, she couldn’t get ahead of herself. Preparation would take time. She couldn’t be impulsive: her role would be to help moderate him. To keep him reasonable, as she had so often before.

Still. Sleep would be difficult tonight, with this possibility. Rather than going through the full procedure, Moira found an opportune moment to pause halfway through. She couldn’t remember her full argument, but without bedclothes, she was going to be awfully cold. And Siebren certainly wasn’t heartless enough to let her freeze alone. They’d be tired in the morning, sure, but the night would be pleasant enough.

If nothing else, she could pretend they were practicing for Amsterdam, too.

+++

Siebren had not been lying about the relative difficulty of preparation. First there was the process of informing the village, of warning the citizens and stocking them with medicines.There were other medical men nearby, with moderate training, and Siebren was comforted to finally meet some of the in the process of preparing to leave. Moira had learned not to rub his face in his defeats, but the fact was that she  _ knew _ it was not so difficult to leave. She had told him this. Her pointed jabs about her relative “correctness” were merely her just reward.

The prospect of travelling overseas was more daunting, and Moira concealed her trepidation as best she could. Siebren’s enthusiasm was infectious, and as the date of departure neared, he grew bolder with his affection, grabbing at her in public or chattering non-stop even when patients arrived. To counter this, Moira tried to withdraw more and more, focusing on packing and preparing.

Finally, when loading their baggage onto the train to reach the coast, Moira could admit to the sense of freedom flowering in her chest. She had earned a taste before, when they’d left town, but this was an entirely different step. To breathe the air of a new country, a new continent--

“Girl.” A rough voice interrupted her thoughts, and Moira turned to see another figure approaching the platform. Siebren was negotiating with the porter, distracted near the further door, and Moira tensed as she recognized the harshness of that tone.

“Mother.”

“Think you’re too good, now? Too good to think about your own flesh and blood?”

“I am not forgetting you, Mother. But I am going.”

“I didn’t say anything! I let you go, when you stormed out! When you ignored your own mother? When you abandoned me to the wilds! I didn’t say anything when you took up with your  _ man _ , selling yourself like a girl on the streets, after I’ve given you everything!” Within just a few words, the older woman’s voice had reached a dangerous shrillness, and Moira winced as she backed away. “And now you’re leaving!”

“Mother--”

“At least the most of them have the good sense to get  _ handfasted _ first.” The woman spat, folding her arms. “You think you know so much, girl, you think you have it all? Well, just let your belly get swollen with child, and then you’ll see. There’ll be no larks to Dublin, no fancy carriages. Just you, and a babe, in a hut.”

“That was  _ your _ life, Mother, not mine.” Moira tightened her shawl around her, backing up until her back was pressed against the platform post. “I’m doing a job, and I’m helping people. What I choose to do doesn’t matter to you anymore.”

“Oh, and she’ll cry out to me! When she begs for a drop of water, I will have none to give!” The older woman raised a hand in priestly fervor, shuddering with her passion. “Your soul will shrivel and burn, and there will be not enough Masses said to save it.”

“Mother--”

“A moment.” Moira started back, surprised as Siebren approached her position. Of course: their little conversation must certainly have been loud enough to catch his attention. Moira cringed again, her chest tightening, her breaths rough and shallow-- “Madam, I must ask you to leave.”

“Oh, the  _ doctor _ .” The older woman waved a hand, lilting her mockery. “Well, o’ course,  _ sir _ , whatever the doctor asks.”

“I am not asking as a doctor. I am asking as a human being. I have much to do, and I cannot have you distracting my most valuable assistant at a time when I need her most.”

“Oooh, so you can call her an assistant, can you, but you can’t ask her own mother for a blessing?” The woman nodded, backing away before Siebren’s advance. “Very well, then! Share her debauchery, the pair of you!” She turned, shaking her head as she disappeared again into the morning fog, and Moira collapsed against the wood as her body seemed to deflate from the tension. Siebren turned, his brow furrowed, and grabbed at her arm to lift her roughly into the train car.

“Siebren--”

“We’re going.” He replied curtly, gesturing to the driver before holding their baggage close. Moira could feel herself shaking, but the train was underway--it was easier to convince herself that it was the movement of the train. Yes. The train. They’d woken so early, of course she was off-kilter. Moira leaned her head against the side of the car, trying to recoup a few moments of rest, and she allowed herself to doze lightly as they exited the county proper. 

When she awoke again, Siebren was watching her carefully, his expression difficult to read. Moira curled into herself, pushing aside the tension in her chest, and waited for her thoughts to still. It was longer than she would have liked, in the end. 

“She’s wrong, Moira.” Siebren’s voice was so low, she almost didn’t hear it over the sound of the train. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I know.” Even to her own ears, her voice was a hoarse whisper, and Moira closed her eyes to shut him out. Siebren couldn’t know. Not this man, this man from another place and another family with another idea altogether, this man who saw nothing amiss with taking her halfway around the world simply because he  _ wanted _ to take her there. 

“You don’t have to listen to her.”

“Stop.” Moira protested faintly, feeling the tremor in her chest that preceded tears. She did not want  _ that _ \--not now! Not now, when they were just beginning this--

The excitement of this journey was odd, difficult to identify. Her previous enthusiasm had collided with this new concern, mingling in her chest. There wasn’t enough space to move in the car with all their luggage, and she did not want to look at Siebren. 

Her mother was right. The others, all the other families and couples--they at least had the wisdom to pretend. They went to the church, said their prayers, let the patriarchs tie the knots around their hands. Even if the bride’s belly was swelling, they at least pretended otherwise. None of  _ them _ had to concern themselves with these things. And didn’t they seem happy? Didn’t they enjoy those little rituals, those little celebrations? Even something as simple as confession was enough for them.

As they drew closer to the coast, the noise gradually subsided, and Moira finally sat up to face Siebren properly. His concern was evident, written over his features, but he remained quiet as she arranged herself. 

“Siebren, are you happy?”

The question surprised him, and he sat back to consider it. “Of course. Very happy.”

“Overall? Even when--even after working, or when we argue, do you still…” 

“We don’t argue as much as we used to.”

“No. Only because I’ve gotten more forgiving.” Moira lifted her chin, daring him to refuse. He merely offered a soft smile, concern easing as he relaxed. 

“I don’t  _ enjoy _ arguing. I don’t enjoy doing amputations or assisting births or examining gangrene, but it has to be done sometimes. But I get to come back to you now. That makes me happy.” 

“And you aren’t worried about...hell.”

Siebren sighed, glancing out the window of their car. The movement made Moira shrink back again, concern redoubled. “That’s what she said, isn’t it. She told you we were damned.”

“Oh, no. You weren’t part of it. Just me.” Moira nodded, folding her arms around her chest. “And I can’t--what we do isn’t  _ bad _ , Siebren, it can’t be, not with so many other babies and dolly-mops and ‘problems’ even in our little village, but why--” She inhaled deeply, trying to focus. “But it doesn’t matter to you.”

“If it affects you, it matters.” He acknowledged frankly. “Where I come from, Moira, it...well, you’ll see. I was not raised with the Church, not the way you were. For us, the process of confession and absolution is not as specific, but is private. It is our own concern, most of the time. There may be a hell, and there may be things that bring me there, but I am not the one that decides that.” He shifted in his seat, watching the landscape outside. “I am not a theologian. But I make my own negotiations with my God.”

Moira nodded, ignoring the other thought that sifted through her brain. They had a long way to go; their journey had just begun. She couldn’t spend the whole time bothering him with questions.

Still, if what he said was true, then perhaps there was a chance. Perhaps the Netherlands held the chance of something different. Perhaps there was something more to the world than the beliefs of a single county.

Perhaps there was even the chance of something more for her specifically, connecting her to Siebren permanently.


	9. Chapter 9

The ship was not her favorite. It was loud, cramped, and somehow much too hot. Moira was grateful that no one granted them a second glance, as it allowed her to spend most of the journey next to Siebren, and she tended him when he struggled through the headaches and nausea of the first few days. He protested, of course, but she ignored him. They waited and persisted and held on until, finally, they entered a crowded little port and managed to escape the ship’s confines. Moira staggered as they took their first few steps on shore, grabbing at Siebren to hold herself upright.

“So!” Siebren crowed, grinning widely. “This is it.”

“Amsterdam?”

“Not quite--well, close enough. You have to get to the center of the city first, if you intend to truly see it. Here!” Siebren lifted their luggage, wading through the crowds, and Moira struggled to follow as he plowed his path. The town was  _ alive _ , amazingly, bright with sunshine and chattering with a tongue Moira could barely understand. She’d heard Siebren use the words before, especially in the early days, but she didn’t know their meaning. Their translation work had focused on Greek and Latin, and even that made her head hurt.

“Are there fish?” She tried to get a good glimpse, to see what else lay along the other piers, but Siebren kept moving. Apparently his ‘sea legs’ were easily forgotten.

“Oh! Oh, well, there’s the markets. It always smells of fish. This is a port, Moira, it always just...does.” Siebren nodded, wild with exhilaration. “Look, we’ll get a buggy. Hold on.”

His warning was well-spoken, as Moira was forced to grab onto him again as he tugged her forward. They rushed between alleys, darting between other moving carriages, and finally Siebren flagged down an empty two-seater before bundling them aboard. Moira was out of breath by the time he finally sat down beside her, and turned to speak only to find Siebren grasping her arms and claiming her lips in a rough, hurried kiss.

“Siebren.” She managed as he pulled away, his smile undaunted. “You’re feeling well.”

“I feel  _ amazing _ .” He confessed, eyes sparkling. “It’s--Moira, this is my home, was my home, it’s--I remember it so well. How long has it been?”

“Barely two years.” She explained, slipping her arm through his. “I’m surprised. I thought you’d be…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. More dignified.” The thought amused her, and she grinned to herself. “I like this, though.”

“Glad I could suffice, then.” Siebren shifted in his seat, adjusting to his role of guide as they continued into the city, and Moira closed her eyes to focus on the movement of the buggy and the rhythm of his voice. When she opened her eyes again, the city had gotten older and dingier, and she could see open spaces where houses were missing. Parks? She couldn’t be sure. 

The buggy brought them up to a slim townhouse, a dark brick facade keeping the houses uniform in appearance. Siebren bounded from his seat, gathering the luggage with a speed Moira found difficult to maintain, but before they’d finished their work the door of the house opened to let a well-dressed man step out and shout a greeting.

It was amazing to watch: Siebren waved his own greeting, his face brightening as the other man moved forward. Moira couldn’t understand the words, but the flow of their speech increased rapidly, falling into a native patter as they exchanged their hellos. Finally, Siebren turned to indicate Moira, nodding eagerly.

“Moira. Moira O’Deorain. This is Luuk Jansen, a friend from university. He is excited to meet you!”

“To meet me?” Moira masked her confusion, standing tall. Luuk nodded confirmation, beaming at her with an easy charm.

“Oh, yes!” His English was accented, but clear enough, and Moira found herself impressed. “Yes, when Siebren tells me of a young woman in his town, I am interested!”

“Interested.” Moira repeated. She’d just met the man, and the only thing she’d done was repeat words he already said. Siebren nudged her forward, carrying the majority of their luggage.

“I didn’t say--I told him about our work, Moira. The medicines. The herbs.” He nodded, following Luuk as they were escorted inside. The townhouse was narrow, but Moira could see the fineness of the furniture inside, and felt herself humbled by the attention being paid her.

“Yes, I am--To say the truth, I am also a student of other cultures.” Luuk led them up a set of stairs, letting them set down their baggage. “Of course it is Siebren who has the chance to visit another country! But I cannot choose a subject. And so I remain at university, still working.”

“Oh, it can’t be all that different.” Moira tried to deflect. “We are rather simple.”

“But you are not!” Luuk explained. “Siebren has told me. The dances, the parties, the speech. All this is...unique.”

Moira nodded again, looking to Siebren, and for once he seemed to understand the cue. He stepped forward, glancing at the rooms, and reached out to shake Luuk’s hand. “It has been a long journey, Luuk. When is dinner?”

“Ah, yes. We will sit down at six, but if you need to rest, do so.” Luuk extended an arm, backing away to give them their space. However, as he left, Moira noticed his knowing wink, and crossed her arms over her chest as Siebren dragged their bags inside the rooms.

“Siebren.”

“Mm?”

“Does he--Did you tell him about me specifically?”

“Yes, of course. You have been invaluable to my work.”

“And he knew I was coming. Did he--”

“He gave us separate rooms, Moira.” Siebren pointed to another door, facing her evenly. “He may make his assumptions, but he is still a gentleman. My goal is not to shame you here. Though if you wish to inform him of our relationship, I am sure Luuk would understand.”

“It is not about shame, Siebren, but--I would like to speak freely before him.” She argued, finding her own bag. “I will not tiptoe around the reality. If you prefer to broach the subject, then do so before I do.”

“Excellent.” Siebren grinned, watching her intently. “This is precisely why I brought you, Moira.”

“To argue?”

“To insist on things. I do enjoy it.” With a nod, Siebren dragged up his bags and began the process of unpacking, allowing Moira the space to copy the process in her own room. It would be slow going, but they would have time before dinner. And then the university, the libraries tomorrow, the entire city to explore...it would be excitement enough.

+++

To her surprise, Moira found the dinner more than satisfactory: yes, it was meager, since (as Luuk explained) it was coming from an adjunct’s salary, but it was rich and hearty. The men retreated to a small parlor as the dishes were bundled away, and Moira had resolved to simply leave it there, but Siebren had come back and escorted her with him. “You’re part of the reason I’ve come,” he explained. “You should be here.” 

Though they did not smoke, as she half-imagined they might, the attitude of the two Dutchmen was a far cry from the relaxed Irish firesides she had seen. They were still properly dressed, folded into their armchairs, and Moira held her hands in her lap in an odd, uncomfortable position. However, Luuk was a gracious host, and he offered a sample of his wine as he began asking Moira about her life. What was the village like? How many citizens? Any mayor or courts? The church, what about the church?

Moira resisted the questions at first, but Siebren adjusted their seating so that she could face Luuk more directly, and she soon found that the anthropologist’s eager expression encouraged her to continue, adding details and side comments as she went on. He was genuine, completely genuine, and Moira was shocked to realize that  _ this _ is what Siebren had done, too. They were both so honest. So real. And as she explained the details of their Catholic faith, the odd blending of woodland folklore and the whispers of witches and Black Sabbaths, Luuk clapped his hands with delight and leaned forward to listen.

“So despite the priest--oh, but is the priest native? Does he speak the tongue?”

“He...yes, I think so. He speaks with most of them, and he sounds right. Probably from Cork. Or something.” Moira scrunched her nose in thought. “I know what you’re going to say, but he’s not like that. He doesn’t mind the handfastings and the purificiations and the bundles of sage. Most households do it anyway, you know: salt over the shoulder, wards against the evil eye. If he was going to do something about it, he’s too late to start.”

“Good, yes, just as I imagined.” Though he didn’t have a notebook, Luuk tapped his thigh as if making a record. “Do they do the handfastings in the church?”

“Sometimes. He blesses them if they do it that way.”

“Wait, wait.” Siebren held out a hand, interrupting the flow. “Go back to this. I’d heard it before, this ‘handfasting’. Is it like the ceilidh?”

“Ah.” Moira shook her head, back ramrod-straight. “No. Handfasting is more private. The people, the betrothed, they come together and their parents witness the handfasting. The two join hands and someone--usually the mothers--ties a rope around their hands. There’s a process and a saying, but you don’t have to do that part. When people don’t have rings, the handfasting is enough.” She smiled suddenly, a flash of wickedness in her eyes. “Granted, most handfastings happen after the girl realizes she’s skipped ahead to the ‘fruitful and multiply’ section of Genesis. But it lets them act married until they get the money for the full wedding.”

“So when your mother--” Siebren jerked back, flushing as he realized his mis-step. “Oh. God. Moira, I’m sorry--”

“No. It’s. She mentioned it.” Moira nodded, her enthusiasm fading. “My mother, Mr. Jansen, has asked me why I have not been handfasted. It is a point of contention between us.”

“To Siebren, yes?” Luuk glanced between them, his eyes bright. “I apologize, Miss O’Deorain, but Siebren had given certain...tells.”

“We are both professionals. And we work in close company.” Moira shrank back against her chair, thinking.

“Well, yes. And he sounds brighter. Lighter. Even more than when I knew him.” Luuk nodded quickly. “He would go on and on about stars, you know? The formation, the structure, the art of them. And then he did that for  _ you _ , in one of his letters, and--well. He does not often do that for earthly creatures.”

“Perhaps it is because she belongs not to this sphere, but to the one above.” Siebren stood, taking Moira’s hand to lift it to his lips. She flushed, uncertain and unsure, and looked to Luuk who winked at her.

“He is calling you an angel, Miss O’Deorain. Or a star. Your metaphors are mixing, Siebren.”

“They both apply.” Siebren nodded, staring at her now. Moira felt a heat blooming throughout her extremities, tingling in her fingers and toes.

“Siebren.” She tried to chide him, offering some firmness. “Perhaps I should insist on a ceremony, then.”

“If you need a place, Amsterdam can certainly supply.” Luuk offered, his eyes twinkling. “One of our great benefits, Miss O’Deorain, is that we have a great freedom of religion. We have many churches, many parishes, all within walking distance. Should you desire a Catholic ceremony, we could accomplish that. But we also have the Anglicans, the Protestants, the Baptists and all the varieties you could wish. And I am sure a handfasting would be feasible.”

“You cannot be saying--” Moira yanked her hand back, standing suddenly to find herself dizzy. “Mr. Jansen--”

“Luuk, please.” He spread his arms in accomodation, leaning back. “Excuse my presumption, perhaps, but there is nothing to prevent it. Certainly not here.”

“And you would be our witness.” Siebren confirmed, moving to help support Moira further. “Luuk, you overstep yourself.”

“If I would not overstep, Siebren, then  _ you _ would never do what needs to be done. Miss O’Deorain, you are a creature of the same caliber of ourselves: a man--ah! Excuse me! A  _ person _ of distinction, of intelligence and vigor and determination, who needs no confines to describe her life. You are not a train to be prescribed to a single track. You are a stallion--no. No, a mare, wild on the moors, without rein or bridle.”

“And Siebren?” Moira smirked, reaching again for his hand. “No, wait: he is no stallion. An ox, perhaps. Hard-working, determined--”

“Hey!”

“No, Miss O’Deorain, a fish.” Luuk shook with laughter, comfortable in his seat. “Wide-eyed and gaping. You may visit his pond from time to time.”

Moira laughed aloud, turning to study Siebren’s bemused expression, and finally yanked again on his hand to pull him close to her. “You are not truly a fish, Siebren.”

“As you are not truly a  _ horse _ . Really, Luuk, of all creatures, at least I decided on ‘angel’.”

“I am a simple soul.” Luuk spread his arms, sliding down in his chair. “Go to sleep, the two of you. We may continue our plans tomorrow. I assure you, Miss O’Deorain, you will see all that Amsterdam has to offer, even if I have to drag you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This exact time-period has gotten a little anachronistic, but hopefully a nice Dutch excursion should clear up a few points. As for the exact plans, well...only time will tell.


End file.
